


days go on

by thankyouandyou



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankyouandyou/pseuds/thankyouandyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds his hand on Bond's neck on a Tuesday. He loses the days from then on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	days go on

1.

 

this is a tuesday evening with his hands on the keys and the sound of breaking glass in his ear. tuesday evening and cold five o’clock tea with 007 breathing and grunting on an early wednesday somewhere far, someplace where a federal building is burning in the dark and a man is wounded, but he’s pulling himself up. he’s getting up.

 

\--

 

he hands 007 his tickets and a suitcase at the airport, borderline saturday to sunday, in-between-days. bond slips the tickets into his coat pocket. he eyes the suitcase. anything explosive in there? he asks with his eyebrow in a hopeful arch. q does not think they are familiar enough for inside jokes, though he does recognize the words.

he tells bond he has included all the necessary equipment. you have nothing to worry about, 007.

 

\--

 

you fear heights more than you fear bullets, 007 laughs from his spot near q’s cochleas, sunday, 4 PM. bullets are more likely to kill you, q.

the day you decide to scale a building, q sighs, zooming in further on the green dot that is 007 in the streets of Strassburg, i will not be your handler.

 

 2.

 

 007 never returns with the things q gave him.

 

\--

 

bond comes back from his missions with things that aren’t his. cars, phones, knives and berettas, coats and cigarette lighters, and that one time, someone else’s socks. the blood on his shirt is probably not all his either, on a monday midnight on q’s kitchen counter, the lipstick on his collar definitely not. the stitches over his right shoulder are getting redone in q’s black thread with a sterilized needle. q is not trained for this, but bond insisted, because he’s not safe yet, there are still things to take care of, he’d rather not show his face. q knows precisely what ends bond has left loose, and he knows better than to lend him his couch and his paracetamol.

he also knows that he’s too valuable for the agency to get rid of for harboring an agent who will set everything to rights in the end anyway. bond is always the horse to bet on. q might even spare him a pillow.

 

\--

 

his house is a glorified box full of windows, that he knows. he feels much safer with angles. curves are not to be trusted, circles even less so. unresolved things, unending. to his amusement, he finds himself telling bond about this. to his amazement, he finds talking to bond to be quite effortless.

he’s waving his hands around to wake his muscles in what is probably not a fluid motion and tells bond he’s being trusted exactly for his lack of curves. how he’s all straight lines and angles and the occasional fold and wrinkle. monday morning before sunrise, the sky is a sickly gray and bond inspects the windows with a line between his brows. he grunts that it’s like asking to be killed. you could not be making a sniper’s life easier if you tried.

q shrugs from the couch. he says something about being a fearless bastard living on the edge and doesn’t pay any real attention to his own words. the line of code on his screen is demanding all his focus.

 

\--

 

007 does fix everything in the end, predictably saving the day and the country. he is congratulated, expertly patched up, and then he doesn’t show his face at MI6 for three weeks. everyone seems unperturbed, so q figures this is standard procedure. he throws away bond’s belongings that have been left in his apartment.

friday evening of the first week, there is a packet waiting on his doormat when he returns, a name that’s not his scribbled on the side in red ink. he recognizes the handwriting and thinks it’s a replacement for the pillow, the one bond insisted he had to shoot through to muffle the sound. he kneels right outside his door, leaves the keys on the floor next to him and tears the brown paper open. inside, there’s a bulletproof vest. q does not realise he’s grinning as he leans closer. the vest smells like old smoke and motor oil. he wonders who it belonged to before him. how far did it travel from. he takes it inside.

 

3.

 

this is his job and no-one else’s, but someone gets him his tea this wednesday, leaves it next to the papers on his desk, careful not to spill anything. he does not know the girl, but she knows how he takes his tea. she smiles at him. he doesn’t quite return it, doesn’t have the time or the focus, but there is warmth in his body language, there’s a thank you, there, surely she can tell.

he is tired. he has been working for thirty-seven hours straight, running solely on caffeine and adrenaline. 007 has not made contact in thirty-seven hours. 007 was ordered not to go after the woman. 007 defied direct orders, again. 007 was in the car that exploded, and logic indicates that he will not be making contact again. in dubious cases, agents are given 48 hours before they are pronounced dead.

 

\--

 

friday, 5.01, there is another cup of tea on his desk when he removes his eyes from the screen. the girl is walking away. she is not wearing heels, just low espadrilles that make no sound. he nods at her retreating back. thanks her for the silence.

he takes a moment to take a sip, press fingers to his temples. he wonders faintly what the tea might mean. this place is full of brilliant people, it’s easy to assume they look at him and read him, read how somewhere between getting teased about his phobias, having to make two cups of coffee in the mornings, and receiving regular postcards from around the world, he slipped. started to care for the man. even worse, started to fear for him.

he puts down the tea. his fingers go back to moving on the touchpad. q does not survive explosions. his is a different sort of stealth.

 

4.

 

this time, tuesday, 2.08 AM, he does not answer the door at the knock. it takes two minutes for bond to pick the lock.

once he’s inside, he stays still for a moment, as if startled, and then he moves, trying to keep quiet, but he can’t make it quite like the girl in the espadrilles can.

bond doesn’t turn on the lights, finding his way around through memory and touch. hands on the wall take him to the sink to pour himself a glass of water, find him chair to leave his jacket on. q waits on the couch with his eyes closed up to the point where bond no longer knows what to do. there can’t have been many resurrections of his to be greeted with lights off and deep sleep breaths. indifference can’t be something he plans for.

thirteen minutes later, 2.23, there is a sigh. q is surprised he is awarded this much. bond goes to leave, leather jacket pulled over aching shoulders, movements careful and tight. the door handle twists and that’s when q says, 007.

how long have you been suicidal.

bond closes the door. he walks across the living room, footsteps in turn muffled and hollow when his shoes hit carpet or wood. he takes a seat in the armchair opposite from q’s couch, long legs crossed, moonlight only touching half of him, like he’s too large to illuminate entirely. q has made himself small, over the course of his wait, he has shriveled. it takes effort, now, to unlock his joints, open his fists. to let his mind put an end to the cannibalism.

shall i turn on the lights? bond asks. q shakes his head, though the gesture is lost in the dark. it will hurt my eyes, he says.

 

\--

 

next morning, wednesday, 8.47, q wakes up to a headache and a shadow falling over him. bond is asleep in the armchair, slumped only slightly, his hands clasped in his lap, like a parent in a hospital room. q inspects himself, catalogues his emotions like counting down injuries. he is still grieving, though he has no reason to. he is still angry, though he never had any reason for that to begin with. he is glad, he is sad and he is hungry. he is late for work. he gets up and makes tea.

 

5.

 

he finds his hand on bond’s neck on a wednesday. he does not remember afterwards whose idea was it that their mouths should touch. he loses the days from then on.

 

\--

 

i have a fear of heights, he tells bond, day three or four of being lost, when they’re naked on a strip of light in front of the window. he is still shaking a little, from the adrenaline and the grief that never seems to go and the fact that he’s naked, in front of a man, in front of a window. his voice stays smooth and even. imagine it like a straight golden line, going on undisturbed through infinity. his troubles are rarely ever externalised. the shaking is a new thing. he is glad he can still surprise himself.

bond’s fingers wrap around his wrist like a cuff but that won’t stop their tremor. go on, he urges, like trying to derail the thoughts of a scared child. admirable, if unnecessary. q has long now learnt to take care of himself.

what about the windows, bond asks, like he actually wants to know.

he’s half-asleep against q’s knee. tired man, q thinks, look at you. you wouldn’t fall asleep with me in the room when you first got here.

i have a fear of heights, he says again, resting his back against the glass. i figured, if i have to live without a proper view, i will not keep out the light.

bond nods, just once. it does not seem like the kind of thing anyone would care to understand. still, bond is strange in his preferences. his eyes are open, but they’re both facing away from the window, nothing for them to look at, just the back of q’s maroon sofa, and he is counting the wrinkles around bond’s eyes.

he takes his glasses from where they’re resting on the bridge of bond’s nose. the view is much better with them on.

 

\--

 

for all that he’s fast cars fast drinks fast bullets on the field, bond is slow in this. he moves like he’s proving a point, this is my hand to your wrist, this is your back to the wall, these are your legs around my waist. this is your balance, and now it’s gone, this is you holding tighter and holding on. this is the one thing you thought you’d never do.

bond takes his time kissing, like the there’s no endgame to this, nowhere to get to from here. the whole purpose of it is holding q up in the middle of the room and touching his mouth. q has not been lifted off his feet since he was a boy with constantly bleeding knees. he was not called q then.

 

\--

 

what is your name, bond asks, after, day-what of being lost. probably monday, or wednesday, or none of the above. q will not pretend it is not disconcerting- but that’s the whole point of being lost, isn’t it. losing.

you know you cannot have my name, q tells him, distracted, sort of dazed, looking around for his shirt. he is dressing but bond seems quite pleased with his current state of nudity, and why shouldn’t he be. he pushes himself up on the headboard. The wound of his abdomen is healing nicely, and q has done his best to not disturb it.

it hardly seems fair, bond says, somewhere between wistful and resigned. you do not call me 007 in bed. you know my name.

q’s shirt is half-under the bed. he dusts and pulls it over his head, skewing the glasses on his nose. do not introduce yourself to me, he warns. i’ve heard you do it enough times. and anyway, what will you need my name for. what makes you think this little experiment of ours is going to continue.

bond huffs from the bed, and q smiles a little himself. he locates his socks and sits down on the bed to put them on.

even if my personal information prior to joining the MI6 was not classified, he says, i haven’t thought of myself as anyone but q in years.

he turns around and finds that bond has moved, no longer slouched against the headboard but leaning against his splayed knees, focused on him. he has never looked less like a codename than he does now.

you already know my name, mr bond, he says, and bond’s hand reaches over to fix his collar.

 

6.

 

the end of the lost days comes on a sunday, 8 PM. bond’s phone rings and 007 answers the call. when he’s done, he flashes q a strange look that q does not care to decipher.

when, q asks from where he’s draped on the sofa, laptop resting on his chest.

tomorrow, bond says. oh-six-hundred hours.

 

\--

 

the days pass, and 007 comes and goes. he still brings things back with him that aren’t his and he rarely ever returns with q’s toys intact. q would ask if it is intentional, but he keeps forgetting. there are often packages outside q’s door when he gets there, addressed to men that are not him. he always takes them inside. there are still postcards. there are still knocks at his door in the dead of night. he learns to wait for them.

 

\--

 

you should tell me your name, bond tells him on a monday, leaning against his desk, tossing and catching his new exploding pen. in case i die in this mission.

the pen glints in the brief second it is suspended in the air. q follows its trajectory back to bond’s hand. his mouth quirks. when this became a thing they do, he does not know.

in case you die, he hums.

in case i die.

franklin davenport, q says.

 

7.

 

007 disappears on mondays. it seems to be a habit.

on this monday of 007, possibly deceased, the mug of earl grey is already on q’s desk when he gets there, in his pyjamas and someone else’s too-big trainers, he’d rather not name names. on this monday, his eyes are red from lack of sleep and his nerves are wild with panic because they were all clapping just four hours ago, a standing ovation for the man that wouldn’t see. m stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips and said, in that booming, shakespeare voice, well done, 007. there is a plane home waiting for you.

on this monday, q’s hands are still steady on the keys but he hisses come on come on come on at the screen. under his shirt, there is a singular mark of bond’s teeth fading low on his side, right between his costae fluitantes. yesterday morning, there was a package addressed to mr. franklin davenport outside his door. 

he replays the video, lowers the speed, runs a quick scan on the faces of the people that pass bond by. unaware, or worse, aware of who and what 007 is. there are no matches yet, his screen is showing no results.

he keeps pausing and rewinding and bond keeps reaching into his pocket for a five euro bill, again and again.

23 hours to go. twenty-three hours, a four-minute footage of 007 buying coffee in an airport, one bite and three months of this, that’s what he has. that’s all he has.

his index finger taps on the 0 repeatedly and he frowns at the screen. bond is caught on a loop, forever reaching over to pay and never getting what he’s paying for.

do not worry, 007, he tells the grey figure. because he can, and bond is not there to frown, offended at the notion.

if they locate a body after this, q thinks, -which they will, they always do, they will only have to compare its teeth to the mark on his skin to find they do not match.


End file.
